The Dynasty
by SavannaBrave
Summary: The idea for this was borrowed. The general idea is that there are teenaged homeless superheroes in Gotham. The characters are all mine, YJ isn't. Enjoy!


Chapter One

The Siren

"Are you coming?" Mother, or as I had to call her, Miss Collins, coldly asked me as she rapped on my door.

"Yes, Mrs. Collins." I answered obediently.

"Well then, hurry up and let's go!" She said sharply. I winced at her tone, then checked myself in the mirror one last time.

My hair was short and straight, A caramel color, hung around my face and tucked around one ear. My eyes were almond shaped and amber, curiosity and wonder sparkled throughout them. I had soft features and a warm smile. I was an taller than most girls, being 5'6 at thirteen. At a distance, I looked ordinary, but if you looked closely, you could see something was off.

I had eye bags under my eyes, hastily covered up makeup, but still seeable. I already had permanent tear lines on my face and my eyes, while friendly and warm, were weary, and my smile never showed teeth, and never looked too happy. I also looked much older then most thirteen year olds, often mistaken for being twenty, or older. But oddly enough, nobody ever noticed that, or, If they did, they were just too scared to say anything.

I looked at my outfit with disgust. I had on a light pink pastel dress with imprints of flowers on it. My hair was pinned back with hair ribbons, and I had on pink eyeshadow and lip gloss. Overall, I looked as if I were a twenty something year old who desperately wanted to be younger.

"Astoria-Peninsula Collins!" Mrs. Collin's voice rang out. Ouch, she used my full name. I've always hated my name, I mean, who names a child Astoria-Peninsula? I tried to ask once, but I got yelled at and slapped for asking questions, something I was forbidden to do.

Quickly, I rush to the private car and get in, ignoring the rush of photographers that swarm the car. Once I'm in, the driver slams on the gas and hightails it out of our driveway.

I sit still, my posture straight and my fingers fidgeting nervously. Every once in awhile I glance at Mrs. Collins, hoping beyond hope for her to change her mind. But she doesn't. For all the things I dislike about her, she's dedicated, I have to give her that.

I glance at her, partly in admiration, partly in annoyance. Her angular face, looking far older than it should, her cold blue eyes and straight brown hair pulled tightly in a bun all resemble someone regal, someone important. Her dress is a muted green, with black heels. Straightforward, unlike mine.

I'm about to complain about my outfit when Mrs. Collins grabs my hand. "When you go up there," She begins, then pauses and moistens her lips. "When you go up there you are not to stop singing, for anything. Remember, no matter what, the show is to go on." I tilt my head in confusion, then feel the heat rise to my face as she slaps me.

"You are not to act confused! You are to act obediently, and do as you're told. You are to be the perfect child, understand?" I mutely nod, then turn dejectedly toward the tinted window until we arrive.

The stage is beautiful, open with white marble and black marble flooring. There's a statue of Bruce Wayne in the center, the founder for the stage. Disgust consumes me for a minute as I try to imagine how big headed Bruce Wayne must be for there to be a statue of himself on the stage.

I walk up the stage steps and shake hands with the mayor, who gives me a quick smile, the director, who tells me where to sit, and the director's assistant, who gives me a cup of coffee and wishes me luck, all with my mother standing stiffly behind me.

As it becomes my mother's cue to leave, she grabs my arm in a vise, and hisses "Don't fail me." before leaving the stage. As I head off toward my position, a man with red hair comes up to me. He looks in his mid twenties, though with his hard green eyes, and strangely, a long sleeve tee shirt, even though it's ninety degrees out gives me a look, then thrusts out his hand. "I'm Roy. Roy Harper. The first." I nod, uncertain, and shake his hand. "Good luck." He says, then quickly releases his hand and walks away. As I turn to watch him go, I find only shadows. Weird, I thought, but before I could ponder this further I'm being shoved toward stage.

I hear the last bit of the mayor's speech before my performance. How incredible Bruce Wayne is, how dedicated he is, blah blah, blah. I bet Bruce paid him to tell that speech. If so, then I'd kill to have a five minute conversation with the guy.

All of a sudden, the curtains are released and I'm ushered toward my position, and the soundtrack starts for my song, a simple piano beat. I start to sing along to the music.

You say you love me, then you leave me, why does this keep happening?

If I seem crazy, Baby, Maybe, you have to understand,

Oh oh, Oh oh, Oh oh, Ohh

As I'm singing, I hear a strange sound, that takes me a minute to discern. Gunfire. I look out to the audience, trying to tone down the panic in my eyes, and look at my mother. She seems to be smirking. I always knew she was cruel, but I never thought she was evil.

I struggle to continue the song, looking at the audience to see if they're noticing anything. Surprisingly, they're not. Actually, the audience is acting weird. They're crying, which in itself is ok, I mean I've seen audiences cry before, but this is different. They all are sobbing uncontrollably, holding onto each other for support.

 _They say time heals you, If that is true, Why am I not there?_

 _Oh, Oh, Ohh_

 _Because this isn't working out,_

 _Because I still have my doubts,_

I'm getting frightened now, the gunfire's closer. I don't know what's wrong with the audience, but Mrs. Collins seems to be the exception. She's no longer smirking, instead looking at me with hatred. I know why. The lyrics were made for her, and she knows it. Seriously doubting myself now, I look into my mother's cold eyes and continue.

 _Please stop tormenting me,_

 _Please I'll do anything,_

 _For you,_

 _My little nightmare,_

 _Please don't_ _despair,_

 _I'll be there,_

 _For you,_

 _My little nightmare._

As I finish the song, I shyly put the microphone down and reach to leave the stage, but the red head boy comes out of nowhere and pulls me off of the stage, with an iron grip.

"What the hell?" I protest angrily.

"Did you see what you just did to those people?" He asked, his voice cold.

All of a sudden I'm fearful. I peek out of the curtain and see that people are not literally _tearing_ out their hair in anguish.

"I-I did this?"


End file.
